Hello, Nathan
by silencingthelambs
Summary: very AU fic about all of the Wammy boys, how they grew up and got where they were going. Rated T for language and later chapters
1. Chapter 1

AN: I don't own Death Note (duh). First chappie is short, I know. Bear with me, I'm building to something here.

cheers

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_/Hello, Nathan…/_

_/You know he can't understand you, yet. You know that, right?/_

_/Bonjour, Nathan. Je t'aime…tu es ma vie…tu es mon monde…tu es mon univers…/_

_/Lee…now _I _don't understand you./_

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_-Marseille, France-_

They had been upfront with him when she died. They had not minced words, they had not sugar-coated anything, and they certainly had not been understanding. They told him that his mother was dead and considered themselves cleared of their responsibility for him.

The boy, being but a year old, could not recall his father's name or whereabouts, and when all options at contacting other family members were exhausted, the authorities made the child a ward of the country and shipped him off to the closest orphanage. They sold the apartment and most of his possessions at auction, and subsequently forgot about the small, cowering child they had rescued from near abandonment.

The boy did not forget. He remembered the people who had come into his home when the other tenants had finally complained about the smell of his decaying mother. He remembered clinging futilely to a figurine and a blanket as they picked him up and carried him out. He remembered them explaining to him just what was going on, and he remembered being irked because they seemed to think he did not understand the situation. He remembered it all.


	2. Chapter 2

I own nothing.

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_-In the air, traveling from Australia to France-_

L woke with a start, and for a moment, he suffered a terrible bout of disorientation. Slowly, the world came back to him, and he remembered. He was on a jet, heading for France. Heading home. At last.

"It's been years since I've seen you do that."

A kind old voice spoke from his right. Sleep still dulling his senses, it took L longer than usual to identify the speaker. Watari.

"Do what?" L's voice was thick. He rubbed his face in an effort to wake up and glanced slowly at Watari.

"Sleep while traveling. You must be exhausted," Watari said. His voice was kind, understanding. Watari lifted the armrest separating him from L and motioned for the teenager to come closer.

Nearly without protest, L leaned against the older man, and as soon as Watari's fingers wound around his hair, L was asleep. Watari smiled. He'd picked up the habit when L was a small child, and it had become something akin to an automatic response.

L did not wake until the plane touched down in Paris.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's a bit of a young Mello. If you're concerned with what he's yelling in Italian, comment on it and I'll translate. I own the rest of Mello's family, but sadly, not Mello himself.

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_-Gatchina, Russia-_

"Mihael, dinner!"

The shout carried well down the hall, but failed to drag the two year old it was directed at from his ruminations. Instead, he continued to sit on the floor of his bedroom, locked in mortal combat with the finer points of Italian grammar.

"Mihael!" His mother shouted for him again, annoyed this time. Still, Mihael did not budge.

Moments later, the somewhat harried woman came down the hall and lifted Mihael from the floor without pretense.

"Figlio di una femmina! Messo me giù! Non sono rifinito ancora!" Mihael shouted.

"Just because I don't understand you doesn't mean that you aren't yelling at me, Mihael. No dessert tonight."

Mihael realized his mistakes quickly. He forced his mind back to Russian and apologized, but his mother wasn't having any of it. If she allowed her children off the hook every time they apologized, they would never learn to behave, and she knew it.

She sat Mihael in his high chair and led her family in grace before serving the meal. For a time, only the sounds of forks against plates were heard, and Anja Keehl took this time to contemplate her youngest child.

Anja was a smart woman, well versed in rearing children and armed with a quick wit and an even quicker temper. But somehow, she couldn't seem to keep up with Mihael. The boy was two years old, and he spoke Russian as well as she did. He spoke Latin better than any priest she'd ever met, and was now nearly fluent in Italian as well. Mihael's wit matched her own, and she was willing to bet that his temper surpassed hers. Easily. So, Anja did the only thing she was certain would help. She nurtured his gifts as best she could.

Unfortunately, this meant that Mihael almost always had his nose in a book, and so meant that Anja rarely saw him. So when he was at the dinner table, where he was nothing more than a giggling two year old, she deliberately took a moment or two to simply enjoy him.

Mihael was a happy child, and his blue eyes were clear and quick. He could light up a room, and he certainly put a light into Anja's eyes. Though the woman would never admit to having favorites, she loved Mihael differently from her other children. The boy was simply more mature than even his oldest siblings, and he was easy to talk to when he was in the mood to listen. To Anja, it was almost like having a second husband.

Mihael caught her staring at him across the table and smiled knowingly. _Yes_, the smile seemed to say. _Yes, I love you best too, Mama._


	4. Chapter 4

And a bit of Matt…

I own nothing.

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_-Staffordshire, England-_

Being two, there were a number of naughty things Mail Jeevas could have been up to. He could have been emptying his dresser of clothes, or redecorating his room with crayon. He could have been trying to flush his father's keys down the toilet. He could have been outside, playing near the edge of the pond that was near his house. He could have been taunting the neighborhood's loud, vicious dogs, or playing in the street.

However, when one said that Mail was up to something, these were not the notions that came to mind. Instead, if you knew him at all, you would know that if Mail was up to something, he was most likely sitting quietly in his living room, surrounded by the innards of something at least vaguely electrical. Fortunately, the boy had enough sense to unplug the thing before he took it apart, or there really would have been cause for concern.

Today, it was the family's VCR. His mother had found him in his bedroom, clumsily (and yet somehow delicately) maneuvering a screwdriver into a tight space to loosen a very tiny screw. She watched him for a moment, and after he extracted the small component of the machine that was apparently his target, he glanced up at her and grinned.

Any annoyance at finding her VCR disassembled in her son's bedroom (for the second time that month, no less) vanished. The woman felt her heart melt. After all, he could be doing something much worse…


	5. Chapter 5

This chappie's a bit longer. SPOILER ALERT: L's real name.

And thank you so much to Nyeh Creampuff for faving this! And to Kitsune no Tenshi for reviewing!

I own nothing except the grief

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_-Marseille, France-_

As soon as he saw the building, L knew something was wrong. There was a low, sick feeling in his stomach, a signal that he had missed something of vital importance. To say the least, L was worried. To say the most, he was terrified.

Though he hated himself for doing it, L sent Watari ahead to check out the apartment. Every time he made Watari do something like this, L knew there was chance that he'd signed the man's death sentence. And every time Watari came back to him safely, L vowed that he would never put the man through it again. Unfortunately, both of them knew it was the only way to keep L safe, and much as he hated admitting it, L knew that his life had priority over Watari's own.

As soon as Watari disappeared from view, L began counting the seconds. Approximately 835 seconds later (nearly 15 minutes), Watari came back into L's line of sight. The man's footsteps were calm and measured, his face comfortably set. Outwardly, he showed no signs of discomfort. Inwardly, privately, he was deeply shaken.

L watched without comment as Watari slid easily into the driver's seat. He continued to stare politely at his companion as the man eased the car into Marseille's afternoon traffic. Nearly 4 hours later, when they had arrived at another of L's apartments, this one just outside of Paris, L got wordlessly from the car and went inside. Outwardly, L gave no indicator of his inner thoughts. Privately, he was nearly sick with worry.

Watari had L sit down at his kitchen table. Briefly, the old man paced along the tile, trying to collect his thoughts, arguing with himself over how best to phrase the news. Finally, he sighed. There was no other way than to be blunt.

"Lawliet-" here, L perked, and his mind spasmed into overdrive. The use of his first name was rarely a good thing. Watari continued as though he hadn't noticed. "-Rosemarie is dead."

The words nearly floored the detective. Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been this. He stared violently at Watari, as though he expected the man to break into a grin and shout, "April Fool!". He hugged his legs close as he felt the world shift beneath him, threatening to buck him over the edge of rational thought and into hysteria.

"How?" Lawliet managed after a quiet pause.

"The man at the desk wasn't certain. I'm sorry, Lawliet."

But Lawliet didn't hear. A new emotion, something akin to terror, only worse, began to come upon him. It wrapped its delicate, strong fingers around his throat, laboring his breathing, melting into him through skin contact, settling cold and terrible, deep within his heart.

"Lawliet?"

And somehow, Lawliet was seven years old again, lacking the courage to face the unknown, and somehow unable to articulate his terror. The world was pulling him under, suffusing him with his own fear, rendering his brilliant mind useless and dull. Wildly, he sought for an anchor, but found none.

His terror breathed inside him like a living thing, spreading icy fingers along his skin, trailing bitter kisses along his mind, leaving him hollow and alone, unable to fight his way back to normalcy, caught up by his own mind and clinging desperately to shreds of his sanity that had long deserted him.

And then, as though someone had flipped a switch, the world began to right itself. Safe, strong arms encircled him, grounded him into a reality that he could deal with. Gentle fingers played with the hair at his ear, sent pleasant shivers down his spine.

Lawliet realized he was on the floor.

"I don't remember moving," he said. His voice shook. He couldn't help it. He still hadn't asked the question.

"I took you off the chair when it became apparent that you may not have been able to keep yourself there," Watari said. His voice was as gentle as his fingers. Then, abruptly, his tone changed. "Are you ready to ask now, Lawliet?"

Once again, Lawliet felt the terror creep over him, but those fingers in his hair…

"Where is Nathan?" he whispered.

Watari prayed silently that he would be able to calm Lawliet down after he answered. Then, because delaying it or beating around the bush would make it worse for both of them, Watari said, "I don't know where your son is, Lawliet."

This time, the world successfully rid Lawliet of his reason. A red haze filled his vision, and he found himself on his feet. His hands itched to hold something, and he gripped a chair tightly before enthusiastically introducing it to the wall. The chair did not survive the encounter, and the wall did not fare much better. Lawliet slammed his fists into his table so hard that the ceramic tile below his feet cracked.

Lawliet approached the bruised wall and put his fist through it. And then he asked it one question, very, very quietly.

"Où est mon fils?" And then, because he suddenly didn't feel like being quiet, Lawliet repeated his question, only at the top of his lungs. "_Où est mon __**fils**_?"

Lawliet turned his back on the abused wall and allowed his legs to give out. He slid slowly down, eyes held firmly shut. He drew his legs to his chest and sat very still for several minutes. He began to hit his head, however lightly, against the drywall, softly repeating his question in a sick mirror of the rhythm his head was making.

"Où est-" _whack_ "-mon-" _whack_ "-fils?"

Lawliet wasn't certain when he started to cry, but soon enough his eyes were red and puffy, and he found it rather difficult to breathe through his nose. He accepted a handkerchief and a mug of tea without comment. A moment later, he smiled weakly. He smelled lavender and chamomile in the tea. Not only was it decidedly calming, it was his favorite.

"Watari, what am I going to do?" he asked. Briefly, he considered being ashamed of being so helpless, but he discarded the idea almost at once. Now was not the time to be prideful.

"We'll find him, Lawliet. The authorities will have made him a ward of the state, so he'll be in an orphanage somewhere," Watari said gently.

Lawliet stared at him violently, as though this information did little to help him feel better.

"It isn't as though we have to comb the world, Lawliet. There are only two orphanages in Marseille. And what's more, the French police have a great respect for both of us. Finding him should not be difficult. Trust me, Lawliet. We'll get him back."

For a moment, Lawliet considered saying something in the way of thanks, but he knew that words would never convey what he felt. Instead, he wrapped his arms tightly around the older man and hugged him close.

"Without you, Watari, I'm certain I would be lost."

The words were nearly inaudible, and Watari had a feeling that he wasn't supposed to hear them at all. He said nothing in return, opting instead to insist that Lawliet drink his tea and go to bed.

It was only after securing a promise from Watari that he would take care of everything did Lawliet finally comply.


	6. Chapter 6

OMG. I'm so surprised at all the reviews. Really. Thank you all so much! (Especially kitsunenotenshi. She knows why)

I own nothing.

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_-Marseille, France-_

He did not listen when people spoke. He did not acknowledge their faces. He did not make any attempt to be a part of their world, as he was perfectly encased in his own. He did not venture into their world, and he believed that they should award him the same courtesy. Often, they did.

_'Then again,'_ the boy thought, _'there are days like this.'_

"Nathan, would you like to play with those children?"

He did not give any response. Instead, he carefully placed another two puzzle pieces into their slots and wondered, _'Why can they leave me alone on some days, and bother me incessantly on others?'_

At first, he'd tried to see a pattern to their attempts, but he had given up. Their thought processes were simply too illogical for him to work out, and that bothered him like an itch he couldn't scratch…but there wasn't anything for it.

Another couple of pieces into the puzzle. Finally, the whole fourth row was complete. He could have been done with the puzzle three days ago, but he only had six or seven to do, and he didn't know how long he would be here. He was pacing himself.

"-lly want you to play, Nathan."

He wrapped a lock of fine white hair around his forefinger and thumb and pulled it gently. He fought back his instinct to repeat her, refused to give in to echolalia, refused to give them any victory in hearing him speak. He hadn't spoken since his arrival (going on two weeks now) and he vowed that he would never speak again, if it came down to it.

_'Then again,'_ he thought, _'I'm not _exactly_ doing it on purpose.'_

Soon enough, the woman who was trying to coax him into playing (he thought her name was something like 'Brigitte') gave up. She left him to his puzzle and walked away, throwing her hands up in exasperation. She, like all the other women at the orphanage, believed him to be a 'difficult' child, highly regimented, stubborn, and tending towards violence if his 'routine' was interrupted.

Their opinions didn't matter to him, though. In fact, very little mattered to him. The orphanage could crumble down around him, and he wouldn't bat an eye. All he wanted was to go home.

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_A/N: Echolalia is a condition common in autism and Asperger's, in which the afflicted echoes what was just said, usually in an effort to gain more time in order to form a proper response. Any questions, class? xD_


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry for being away for so long…my computer is throwing a total shitfit…

Things in _'italics'_ are thoughts, the rest of it is regular...seem simple enough?

Anyway…enjoy.

I own nothing.

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_-Gatchina, Russia-_

The man came to their door in the early afternoon, around 1:30 or so. Mihael was practicing his written Italian when the man came into the living room, followed closely by Anja. He looked down at Mihael with something akin to appraisal on his face, and it made Mihael shiver.

"Is this your son?" the man asked Anja. His tone was polite, sort of saying, 'I'm asking, but I don't really care'.

Mihael didn't buy it. _'And that's a stupid question anyway. Whose son would I be if not hers?'_

But Anja smiled and said yes, and rather proudly, at that. Mihael smirked. Pride was the sin his mother warned him most frequently against, but Mihael was smart enough not to mention it in front of company.

And the man did something with his face then, which could have been loosely called a smile. Mihael thought it was a mockery, a grotesque pantomime. He would have put money on the guess that the man had never actually smiled in his entire life.

The man reached out a hand to ruffle Mihael's hair, but he never got that far. The boy started growling, a deep animal sound reverberating loudly from his tiny chest. From anyone else it would seem absurd, but 2-year-old Mihael Keehl had stopped grown men in their tracks with the sound. This man was no exception. He froze on the spot, as though someone had a gun to his head.

Anja scooped Mihael off the ground. "Mihael, that's not polite at all," she said. She turned to the man and continued, "I'm sorry. He's not usually like this."

The apology was sweet, but her tone was guarded now. She trusted her son's intuition most of the time, and even if he wasn't overly friendly with new people, he rarely growled unless he had a reason to.

"Oh, don't think twice about it. I can't blame a young boy for being shy." And the man pretended to smile again, and Mihael shivered.

_'Like a predator,'_ Mihael thought suddenly. _'He's not smiling to be friendly. He's smiling because he sees prey…'_

And the realization sent Mihael into such a shock that he forgot to glare or growl entirely. Anja put him down and she and the man talked for a while. Mihael hadn't even listened to the conversation, he was in such a state.

Later that night, Mihael woke up to the sound of his parents arguing quietly. He furrowed his brow and listened hard. It had to be quite serious, because his parents never argued, loudly or otherwise.

"Well, I think it's a good idea, Anja. It would be a wonderful investment," his father was saying.

"I know, Mischa. I know. I like the idea as much as you do."

"I don't think you do, Anja. You haven't said one thing in its favor since we started discussing it. I never ask you for _anything_, Anja. Just this."

Mihael felt a flair of annoyance rise in his chest. _'No, you never ask for anything, Papochka, but you expect plenty.'_

"Mischa, I told you. It sounds like a fantastic idea. It's only that…well…Mihael didn't like him at all."

There was silence for a moment, and Mihael could feel the tension of it all the way in his bedroom.

"Mihael didn't like him? _Mihael?_ He's two years old, Anja. I'm not basing my investment decisions on what a two year old thinks."

Anja sighed, exasperated. "If Mihael hadn't gone over our books, we wouldn't have any money to invest in the first place, Mischa."

"I'm _not_ basing my decision on the character assessment of a two year old, Anja, be he a genius or not. That's all there is to it."

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_Yes, no, maybe so?_


	8. Chapter 8

I'm SO sorry about the long update. I hope none of you lost faith in me...the truth is, my computer's hard drive got wiped out, and I lost all of my stories. I'm doing my best to re-build, but I'm still getting over the catastrophic damage that's been done...bear with me, please.

I hope you enjoy!

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-_Marseille, France-_

At night, he dreams.

_The weather report from home is that it's been snowing for three days straight. He's ready to leave this place and go back there, even though the temperature is going to be a real shocker. He's ready to go home and see her waiting there for him at the airport, sticking out like a sore thumb because of her hair._

_He thinks about her hair more often these days. Perfectly, purely white, and soft as down. Her eyes, like most of those afflicted with albinism, are red in color, and red rimmed from over exposure to harsh lights. She hates the way they look, but he loves them. Her eyes are so expressive, it's almost too easy to read her._

_It kills him that it isn't the casework that's keeping him here. The case itself, while not simple in the least, is going smoothly. Even if he went back to France now, with the work half done, he could close it. But it isn't the case that's keeping him stranded in southern Italy. It's the weather back in France._

_It he were at home right now, he could be watching the snow fall with her. He could be sitting in his loft, holding her close, thinking about almost nothing, enjoying her company. If he were at home, he could be happy._

_The realization hits him harder than he'd expected it to. Usually, this job is all he needs to keep himself satisfied. He hasn't questioned himself in that area since he was seven years old. But now, he realizes that working isn't enough to keep him content. He needs to see her to be truly fulfilled._

_And as he realizes this, he is filled with such an incredible longing that he very nearly begins to cry. He stands abruptly and goes to his suitcase. It is already half-packed, and he hastily gathers the rest of his belongings and throws them haphazardly towards it._

_"Watari," he calls out as he zips the travel bag shut. "We're leaving. I hope you can fly through snowstorms."_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Ha ha..new chappie. I hope you all enjoy. My muse attacked me for this story (she's so violent), so expect more pretty quickly.

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_-Staffordshire, England-_

Mail got his very first computer out of nowhere. He'd seen it sitting in a junk shop that he and his mother went by on their walks. It was old, covered in dust, and obviously no longer in use. Mail wasn't sure what it was about the old heap that amused him. He just knew that it did.

The junk shop man had seen two yea old Mail eying in for nearly 2 weeks. He resolved to say something to Mail's mother about giving it away cheap. So, the next time Mail and his mother strolled by, the junk man was ready for them.

"Ma'am," he said in his politest tones. "Ma'am, I've seen your little 'un eying this old box for quite some time now. I think he's quite taken with it."

Mail giggled. The man pronounced 'think' like the word 'fink'. Mail's mother arched an eyebrow at him, and he gazed up at her, thoughtful. At some length, he spoke.

"I do like that computer, sir," Mail said.

The man was clearly taken aback by Mail's clear diction. He stared for a moment at Mail, and then a slow grin spread across his face. He looked to Mail's mother for a decision.

Mail's mother turned to him. "Do you like enough to want to own it, sweetheart?" she asked her son.

Mail considered the question very seriously. His mother smiled and brushed his coppery locks out of his eyes. Mail developed the most adorable line on his forehead when he was thinking, and she liked to kiss it sometimes, to try and get him to be less serious.

After some time, Mail answered. "Yes, I would like to own it. But it isn't going to be in one piece for long."

Mail's mother smiled and bought the machine for him straightaway, calling it an 'early Christmas present'. And Mail, always true to his word, had the thing disassembled as soon as they'd returned to the house.


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